Equivocal Musings of a Self-Proclaimed Cynic
by 8man
Summary: In which Hikigaya Hachiman spouts an assortment of witticisms and proverbs while getting the girl he loves.
1. Sincerely

**Chapter 1 / Sincerely  
**

To: Tokyo Institute of the Arts and Sciences  
Subject: Application Letter

Dear Admissions Director,

Education is a lie.

Think about it: The very concept of "school" itself is deceptive and utterly corrupt. Money is plucked from the hands of taxpayers like apples from some gargantuan tree and spent on operating "schools" and "universities" that are established largely for proprietary gains and profit. Lackadaisical NEETs or delinquents - people with IQs pathetic enough to make a rock cry (not looking at you two, Sora and Shiro) - gain access to top tier institutions due to the financial prosperity of their parents.

Can't get your kid into university? Just buy a quarter of the school. Big deal.

Hah.

Sell your house. Sell your car. Sell your brats to a distant institution that converts years of their mortal souls into bland arrays of lectures and drivel - 95% of which is completely irrelevant to future job requirements. Tuition is only half of the yen in your bank account, ten centuries of student loans, four years worth of artificial noodles in their systems, and a do-or-die contract with the devil.

Interesting, given that the patrons of "education" still assert that school is a "vital component of modern society" or an "essential cornerstone of success."

What a joke. Don't make me laugh.

School is a meaningless concept built on faulty conjecture - a house of cards on a bed of sand.

School is a deceptive propaganda machine for preaching the supposed advantages of "hard work" and "hard workers."

School is a place where adults with no other employment options eek out a living by educating the next generation of societal baggage.

School is a mirror of the modern capitalist hierarchy, where the privileged few who are blessed with good looks, popularity, or social talent - those possessing the "means of production" - lord over the trampled outcasts and rebels like kings over serfs.

School is a modern labyrinth, a scourge of Daedalus, built to ensnare those foolish enough to believe in the monstrous lie of youth - no Ariadne exists; only the Minotaur can win.

And school is most definitely not romantic; nor is it a comedy.

It is reality, and reality is the worst lie of them all.

But I think your school is pretty nice. Let me know if I make it in.

Sincerely,

 _Hikigaya Hachiman_


	2. Liar's Mask

**Chapter 2 / Liar's Mask**

Faces are deceptive. While important as a primitive method of identification, they stand among the very cornerstones of inequality.

Every morning, billions of people wake up in the morning to look themselves in the mirror, and I guarantee you that a solid 50% would absolutely despise what they see staring back into their bagged eyes. The other 50% are an unsightly amalgam of the flawlessly gorgeous and the ones who have already consigned themselves to be damned so many times that they've seriously stopped giving it thought.

Let's assume for a brief moment that you have an terrible face or, perhaps, an average one that would otherwise look decent but is tragically marred by a disproportionate nose or a horrendously misplaced mouth. Your life choices are thus presented as follows:

a) You quietly accept the works of "fate" or "bad luck" and live the rest of your life as an unmarried wage-slave, marrying some equally unlucky and likely overweight soul in the same social position as you (if anyone at all).

b) You try to coerce yourself into believing your mother's fallacious "reassurance" comments: "Hey! It's the inside that counts!" or "They are just empty vases!" Last time I checked, all vases are inherently empty and ugly ones get no sales. Who wants an ugly vase?

c) You get plastic surgery immediately by forgoing your life savings to artificially correct that one regrettably dominant gene. Consequently, you marry a stunning supermodel who would otherwise never look you in the eye - only for her to file for divorce and therapy sessions the instant she uncovers your "old" college Facebook photos.

I actually think that the last one would make a hilarious story.

Just saying. Where was I?

Right.

Looks and faces - absolutely despicable inventions - only divide our twisted society further. As if financial distinctions weren't enough, people also separate themselves into social hierarchies based on appearances. Cute girls only converse and aim for cute guys. Ugly guys either meet ugly girls or hire for a "good time." Average guys like me stay alone forever. Not that I would mind.

Because of one unfavorable roll in the random number generator or one dastardly twist of chance's crooked hands, heads either turn towards you or away from you. People either flock your way in the hallways, fighting to make trivial conversation, or ignore you completely as they would their shadows. Job interviewers either become infatuated with you - asking for your number as you rise from the chair - or put on a "business face" as they discreetly shred your resume after your much desired exit lets their eyes rest in peace. They say that a pretty face can only get you so far, but I disagree. You'd have to be incredibly stupid not to abuse your looks to move ahead of the crowd, and given that you do, you would get quite damn far. Far enough at least to marry another hot person or land a six-figure job, unlike the rest of us pathetic miscreants.

Even in mythology, the deception of faces has proven time and time again to be a facet of reality, not fantasy. Helen of Troy supposedly had a face so irresistible that she started the Ancient Greek equivalent of World War I. The gorgon Medusa possessed a face of snakes so terrifying that all who gazed her way would be instantly reduced to lifeless stone statues.

How quaint.

My Modern Japanese teacher, a fascinating hybrid of the above two, is wearing a face so beautifully deadly that it would probably skip the "stone" part altogether and send me directly to an unmarked grave twenty thousands leagues under the sea - perhaps with a few chocolate truffles in my casket and a handwritten note on the side: _"Send my regards to Captain Nemo! XOXO"_

I haven't even gotten the chance to write my eulogy.

Hiratsuka-sensei sits before me at her desk while I scratch the crumpled fabric of my school uniform, awaiting certain damnation. The air around us, long since bereft of the shrill afternoon bell, takes on the tense silence before a looming war. In her left hand, she pinches a fuming cigarette so tightly that it is bent at a viciously acute angle; in her right, she clenches my Modern Japanese assignment from last week.

In her mouth, she holds the judgement of God.

Is it too late to believe in prayers?

 _"_ _...Hiki...gaya...kun..."_

My now mangled assignment is thrust in my face as I vigorously study my indoor shoes.

Some context is probably in order. Hiratsuka-sensei told me to write, and I quote, "an honest mock application letter to the head of admissions at a university of your choice." I did exactly as I was told with no compromises or straw-grasping. It's not my fault that I took the liberty to follow her instructions accurately. Seriously, just think about the irrationality! What sentient entity under the heavens tells a guy to do something and gets pissed off at him for doing so?

Oh wait. Girls do.

Women are synonymous with girls.

Sensei is a woman.

Kill me.

"...do you know what this... this is?" My teacher is on the brink of either foaming at the mouth or releasing a punch with a force rivaling the magnitude of the Tsar Bomb detonation.

Either way, not a good situation.

"...yeah," I mumble offhandedly.

She continues to seethe, her voice wavering.

"...I asked you to write a mock application letter to a university, and you turn in another one of your nihilistic hit pieces... Do you think this is at all acceptable?!"

The last few syllables come out as a half-shriek.

Time to counterattack!

"Hey, I-"

Unfortunately, my would-be superior logic is completely cut off with another verbal uppercut.

"Don't... Don't even give me any of your wisecracks or roundabout logic... I want this assignment redone... by next week..." The cigarette has shriveled in her grasp, precipitating to her desk in a smoldering disarray of fuming ashes.

I have nothing else to say. No more humorous rebuttals. No more thin arguments. No ammo. No energy. E-Tank! Maximum Tomato! Full Restore! Reload! Reload!

Nothing? Fine then.

I, Hikigaya Hachiman, bequeath to my younger sister Komachi all my earthly possessions: My outdated smartphone, retro video game collection, and a most valuable album of Totsuka photos.

On second thought, bury the Totsuka album with me. I need something to pass the time in hell.

Sensei rams her clenched first, my paper in hand, into the mess of hot ashes on her desk. The sonic boom created from the impact could make most fighter jets gape in admiration, and I jump back and hit my head on the wall in surprise and raw terror at the destructive marvel that is my Modern Japanese teacher. This isn't a woman. This is no Helen of Troy. She sends legions of men in the opposite direction! She burns a thousand flammable male souls with that incinerating gaze! She buries young boys alive with her linguistic hammer of judgement! _"Taking on Sheamus! The Undertaker! CM Punk and even Triple H and The Big Show in a spit-swapping makeout match... WWE Suuuuuuuppperrrrr Slllaaaaammmm!"_

Seeing it favorable to escape before Hiratsuka-sensei starts offering me $60 pay-per-view packages in a booming voice as trumpets blare in the background, I mash the nonexistent "Run" button again and again. No dice. There is a deathly numbness in my body.

Note to self: Petition for a paralysis nerf in the next patch.

My cheeks tingle violently. Sensei has suddenly pulled her face close enough to whisper in my ear. Although I'm 108% sure that such a flagrant disregard of personal space is a violation of multiple school sanctioned teacher-student regulations, I'm too immobilized to care. The heavy tobacco in her moist breath floods my senses and I half-deliriously brace for impact.

"...Do it, or else I'll make you repeat all of high school. Twice." Hiratsuka-sensei gives me a smile that would make God cry.

And as if on cue, the assignment in her hand bursts into small, wicked flames that ruthlessly lick up the printed kanji.

Do you know how liquefaction occurs? Water-saturated granular material temporarily loses its strength as it shakes and transforms from a solid to a liquid. The resulting instability is capable of sinking rigid skyscrapers into the ground and causing them to eventually implode.

Liquefaction is an excellent way to describe my current physical state.

I mutter an "I'm on it, Sensei" before weakly limping for the door and then breaking into a full sprint down the hallway, almost tripping on some moron's haphazardly positioned books. Outbound students give me a few quizzical stares before going back to their business.

 _Women. Are. Scary._

In light of today's experiences, I have established a fundamentally solid reason as to why Hiratsuka-sensei is still unmarried. That pretty face belies a world of what she calls "tough love." Personally, I think that "love" tough enough to land craters in cinder block walls is best left alone. Who knows? Maybe one day Sensei will meet a hapless young gentleman with a dominatrix fetish.

Nope. Don't think like that. Bad things. Dirty, stupid, adolescent thoughts.

I break seven school records in track-and-field, still panting in full sprint down the crowded hall. Turning a random corner, a familiar length of black hair comes within my vision two seconds too late, and the inevitable happens.

We collide.

There is a muffled thud as we hit the tiled floor.

"Ngh..." The halls and doors swirl around me like water around a drain as I dizzily attempt to regain my bearings. Greeting my ears is a voice cold enough to freeze sunshine into snow.

 ** _"_** ** _Watch where you are going, you careles-"_**

The voice suddenly stops. I'm not complaining; my eardrums need to thaw. I blink my eyes.

It's her.

 _Her._

 _She Who Must Not Be Named._

"Oh," my victim stammers stiffly. "Sorry."

"No, I was careless. I'll watch where I'm going." Our voices are out of breath. I'm telling myself to get a grip, but for some reason it's slipping fast. She sits herself up as I help her recover her books, and our eyes meet by dumb chance.

For a fleeting moment less than time can count, the plodding of feet, the disjointed conversation, the swinging of doors, the banging of lockers, the afternoon breeze- everything, everything, appears to slow down and then stop altogether. The moment hangs suspended in the air, and she is dangerously close - the "I-now-know-the-brand-of-shampoo-you-use" kind of close. Still cornered by time, my eyes trace the contours of her delicate expression and reach a startlingly paradoxical conclusion:

There are no lies in that face.

 _None._

A chill runs down my body.

She lets out a barely audible gasp, and I scramble to reclaim my rationality.

 _...What is this again?_

Words finally force their way out of my mouth. "Yo... Are you heading to the club room?" It's my last resort: Empty conversation. Though I hate to use it, it always seems to work - 100% success rate or your money back.

Her cheeks quickly redden - definitely because of the heaters. They've turned them on too early this year, which constitutes a significant waste of taxpayer money. You have too many things you can do with money instead of burning it on air conditioning.

Burning money? Heaters? Financial dynamics? Get it?

I crack myself up.

What am I trying to hide from?

"...Yes." Her reply catches me slightly off guard with its soft, muffled, and - almost, ALMOST, warm - tone. My head is still foggy; a loss of a few IQ points wouldn't be out of the question.

"Then let's go."

"Alright."

We stand, and the ground tilts beneath our feet.

It is another chilly day in spring with fair weather and scattered tufts of clouds. As I turn the usual corner to the usual room, I have already suffered emotional trauma from meeting my overripe Modern Japanese teacher and bodily damage from running into one Yukino Yukinoshita. Max Repel has proven ineffective, and fleeing equally so. The gods of rom-com have toyed with me again.

Well done. I'll clap and play along.

However, let me tell you one thing. I know that nothing so far has been genuine - that this life, like faces, is ultimately a charade. Day by day, the people around me allow themselves to be suspended by falsehoods, smiling as their limbs dance and sway above the reality that awaits below. They have chosen to dangle safely beyond the dreaded truth.

I, on the other hand, fall. From when that first rejection cut me loose until now, every second of my existence has been a second spent falling. I wouldn't say that I mind.

For as a wise wooden boy once observed, _"There are no strings on me."_

But if that is so...

 _"_ _Say, Hikigaya-kun..."_

.

.

.

 _...just what exactly is pulling at my heart?_


	3. Non-Newtonian Roundabout

**Chapter 3 / Non-Newtonian Roundabout**

Relationships, for the most part, are like non-Newtonian fluids.

Approach them head-on in a blunt and honest fashion, and they turn into impregnable solids that no determination can breach. You can be assured that the rest of your days will be spent in despair and solitude, burdened by the _oh-so-confusing_ fact that nobody wishes to hold a conversation with you for more than five minutes.

Employing such a primitive method, according to society, is an utterly laughable display of folly.

Instead, you are expected to revel in the roundabout pleasure of the slow approach - far superior, by the way, to the humble yet logical designs of the commoner. As tar pitch takes its sweet time over many years to form even a single drop of significance, so you also must slog through trite talk and false conviviality before anything at all is to progress in a relationship.

But the best part?

When you inevitably pull away (and believe me, you _will_ pull away), regardless of whether you have chosen to do it straightforward-and-frowned-upon or socially-acceptable-yet-idiotic, you will always end up with nothing but the lukewarm crust that remains when cornstarch and water dries. For this reason alone I have avoided all non-Komachi relationships since my middle school days like the plague. I can never forget the feeling of futility that once caked my fingers.

So why am I, a shitty teenager who utterly despises relationships, now being dragged back into this sticky abomination?

Two words: _Service Club._

Service Club, an extracurricular activity in which I sit at the far end of a folding table and read while attempting to ignore the only other members at the opposite end.

Service Club, a chore that I have undertaken because I do not particularly care for death at the hands of a certain martial arts-employing teacher.

Service Club, a living contradiction in both name and purpose - clubs by definition are selfish, existing primarily for the benefit of a homogeneous few.

Come to think of it, "Service Club" might actually suggest a degree of self-awareness by implying that we exist solely in "service" of ourselves. If that is the case, then I take it back: Not a bad name at all.

In fact, call me a fan.

"Hikki! Did you hear what Yukinon just said? Isn't that just _hilarious?_ "

Duty calls.

"Oh. What did she say again?"

I make no effort to look up from the book balanced between my fingers. It is technically a rude gesture, but between my lingering disdain for small talk and this incredibly intriguing development in my light novel chapter (he's about to return to the Beta World Line, damn it), I manage to convince myself that there is no room to consider such pointless formalities. What good comes out of engaging in a conversation that bears no fruit? You can prune its branches all you want and water it with every new inside joke or hot gossip, but come harvest season and you'll be left to starve. Our generation of youths, however, is intent on ignoring basic arithmetic. Ten million times zero is still – you guessed it – _zero._ _Nada. Zilch._

Idiotic. It's all so idiotic.

And besides, it's not as if there are any real repercussions involved at the moment. Yuigahama will certainly let my offense slide, given her non-confrontational nature. Yukinoshita, on the other hand -

 _"I suppose frogs do only have an attention span of less than ten seconds."_

Not quite the insult that I expected, but close enough.

"Frogs can't afford to have patience," I rebut. "They need to eat a relatively large amount of insects to meet daily dietary requirements."

"So a short attention span enables them to conserve energy, since they don't waste time focusing on one prey?" The words leave her mouth with a signature air of disdain and mild amusement. Whatever transfiguring spell that was cast on her during our moment in the hallway has long since met its expiration date. The clock has struck midnight; daybreak is upon us. _Goodbye, fair princess!_

What a relief.

"Yep," I nod lifelessly before turning another page.

Yukinoshita shivers. "Gross. But I suppose that it would not be out of the realm of possibility for you to consume insects."

"Believe what you want. That factoid, however, is indisputably correct. And energy conservation is a perfectly reasonable philosophy to abide by."

It doesn't take a genius to figure out where this discussion is headed. I've sparred one-on-one with Yukinoshita before during Service Club, although the results are outstandingly not in my favor. The average duel ends with me being verbally guillotined in some form or fashion by a ruthless jab at my intelligence. Or my shitty grades in math. Or my eyesight. Or my intelligence. The best I can manage is to put on the Chainmail of Sheer Apathy, grab the clutch +100 boost in defense that it provides, and survive the otherwise fatal blow to my ego. That, combined with a few experienced parries from my Dagger of No Fucks Given, is usually enough to end the match at a draw.

George Santayana famously said that those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it.

In my defense, it's difficult to avoid decapitation when Hiratsuka-sensei orders you by divine mandate to willingly seek out your executioner after class.

"What told you that? Certainly not page 112 of _Steins Gate._ " Yukinoshita gestures at my light novel with a fleeting smirk.

"How can you even see the page number from your seat at the window? Are you some omniscient demon?"

" _Please._ My eyes are not rotten to the core like yours."

Now, that response is becoming far too predictable. She used it yesterday already. And the day before yesterday. Not that keen on defense then, are we? Time to utilize one of my 108 skills: cheaply capitalizing on past generosity to invoke a sense of indebtedness and guilt in the present!

"Or maybe you are simply wearing the PC glasses I gave to you on your birthday," I counter, trying my hardest to be nonchalant about this admittedly petty attempt at guilt-tripping. Call it underhanded or sleazy, but it typically works extremely well. A false sense of unfulfilled social obligation is a real force to be reckoned with for most people.

Of course, it occurs to me much later that we both do not fall under the umbrella of "most people."

"Your twisted tactics will not work on me. And regardless, the augmentation of my vision does not change the fact that you are reading such juvenile material." Yukinoshita's steely voice does not give even an inch of ground. What appeared to be a crack in the hull was merely a distant mirage.

"Really, _Hikifroggy-kun_. I knew you could stoop low, but I did not expect your literary tastes to follow suit."

"Au contraire. _Steins Gate_ is an excellent work of contemporary fiction," I state with a pinch of feigned pride, trying to recover from the near-deadly swing at my sole shred of talent. It is time to steer this exchange in a more auspicious direction. If unscrupulous methods won't work, then I will be forced to decimate this stone cold fortress using my equivalent of a nuclear onslaught.

Heh. Playing against Gandhi has taught me well.

"What is it about?"

"The psychological consequences of time travel."

I hold my breath, anticipating what I believe will be her response. It all depends on this one moment of precognition. Can I stay one step ahead of my enemy?

 _Rom-com gods, sovereigns of all well-timed clichés and stupid coincidences - have mercy on my humble existence. Please let this next retort be what I think it will be._

Almost in direct response to my plea, Yukinoshita gives a cold sigh before taking the bait I have laid out with nothing more than a scoff.

"Excellent literature indeed."

…

Hah! You've just activated my trap card!

"I do suppose that it pales in comparison to the masterpiece that is _Pan-san's Happy Frolic in Bamboo Land,_ but _you, of course,_ would know best." Not even my book can hide my satisfaction as I finally douse my opponent with oil and incinerate her with this meticulously crafted burn.

Yukinoshita immediately turns an expected shade of pink (from being toasted to a glowing crisp) and begins to stare absently out the window. Yuigahama watches the smoldering aftermath from afar with a few nervous chuckles. I simply smirk. Ever since I discovered that Pan-san could potentially be used as potent ammunition against Yukinoshita, I have been awaiting the golden opportunity to fire him into one of my verbal skirmishes with her. The apparent result?

Total annihilation of the enemy. Beautiful.

Who says that war never changes?

Looking back at my novel, I make sure to give the gods above a subtle thumbs up under the table in order to communicate my sincerest feelings of gratitude and adoration.

 _Thank you for finally letting me nuke that bitch._

 _Don't get ahead of yourself, you little shit._

My prayers to the annoyi- I mean, _loving and nurturing_ deities are suddenly interrupted by the loud crash of the club door swinging open.

This crash is followed by a heavy thud, which is then followed by a chorus of nasty creaks in the floorboards - the kind that can only be produced by someone who is nearing developmental maturity performing a crouching roll before jumping upright with excessive flair. A dark shadow is cast upon my book below, and a large figure looms before me. It could be a lost sumo wrestler. It could be an overweight Naruto.

It's Zaimokuza.

Not the area within the Kamakura, Kanazawa Prefecture in Japan, but the eccentric and wide-framed student that the Service Club helped shortly after I joined. Not the gently sloping beach that serves as a decently attractive tourist destination, but the aspiring light novel writer suffering from eighth-grader syndrome so bad that it manages to degrade the terrible quality of his manuscripts even further. Seriously, though. If there is one single thing in existence that is capable of uniting Yukinoshita and I, it is the outstandingly poor quality of Zaimokuza's prose - if it can even be considered as such.

Find tranquility and meditation in the sands of Zaimokuza beach.

Find grammatical murder and overused tropes in Zaimokuza.

"HIKIgaya HACHIman!" Zaimokuza booms, adding unnecessary emphasis on the preceding syllables of my first and last name. "My brother-in-arms, my partner in crime, and, dare I say it, _my fellow otaku-"_

I quickly interject before he can finish his predictably long-winded opening statements.

"Oh, hi there, Zaimokuza. Can I help you?"

"But Hachiman! Why so distant? Why so glum, chum? Aren't you happy to see your…"

He uncharacteristically halts for a moment, as if scrutinizing something inquisitively beneath his rectangular glasses. It is already too late when I realize that he is fixated upon the cover of my light novel, left upon my lap during what now appears to be a lapse of proper foresight.

" _Steins Gate?!_ Ah, Hachiman! If only I knew that you were a _fan!_ I'd have invited you over for 'Sci-Fi Analysis Night' at my house! We could have stayed up all night-"

"Zaimokuza." Judging from the subject matter and from past experience, this rabbit hole won't be leading to Wonderland.

"-binging the whole first 5 seasons of _Mobile Suit Gundam_ while eating nothing but _snacks and instant ramen-_ "

"Zaimokuza!" I try again, in a half-desperate effort to derail this tangent before it drives his already shabby reputation further down the gutter.

In the corner of my eye, Yukinoshita visibly flinches with disgust.

I need to end this now.

"-and going over my _totally massive_ collection of doujinshi-"

 _ **"Zaimokuza."**_

He stops.

I do not bother turning towards the source of the voice - the hilt of the vorpal sword that, in one stroke, kills the jabberwocky.

I know who it is, and I know it too well.

Zaimokuza recoils - first in shock, then in horrible defeat. His shoulders slump, and the nonstop enthusiasm that possessed him when he barreled in is completely vaporized. I feel as if I have just witnessed an exorcism of the cruelest caliber.

First my Japanese teacher, and now Yukinoshita.

Terrifying women seem to follow me wherever I go.

"I'm sorry, yeah?… I'm a loser, I know. D-didn't mean to creep you all out…" Zaimokuza turns a little towards Yukinoshita, head lowered and eyes quivering, before quickly backing away towards the door.

"I'll get out of your hair now, promise…"

"W-wait!" Yuigahama starts, wide-eyed and stammering. "Yukinon didn't mean that! I… I'm sure…" As her words tie themselves into the tight knot of a whisper, she glances over at Yukinoshita, who stiffens but retains her trademark composure.

Zaimokuza shuffles further towards the door. I decide to speak up.

"She's right, Zaimokuza. Sorry about Yukinoshita. She's really having a bad day."

This statement has only just slipped past my tongue, but I already recognize it as a lie. Something isn't right.

Now, however, is not the hour for truth.

Walking over, I place my hand on his shoulder and guide him back towards a seat at the table.

"We got sidetracked. You came here for a reason, I assume. Let's hear your request…"

I clear my throat.

"…buddy."

A cathartic silence permeates the air. It evidently does Zaimokuza some good, because he finally speaks with a pinch of the runaway energy that the Ice Queen vanquished.

"Alright, man. Thanks."

Looking sheepishly at everyone present, save for Yukinoshita, Zaimokuza shifts his weight around in his chair before finally settling down, gripping the ends of his brown trench coat with what appears to be trepidation. One deep breath. Two deep breaths. He tilts his head down and allows a shaggy mop of white hair to cover his glasses.

Yuigahama notices his uneasiness. "Could it actually be something serious?"

"Possibly," I whisper back. What could it be? Did his childishness finally catch up to him in an unspeakably horrible manner? It was bound to happen eventually, but never this early. Is he being beaten up after school? Has somebody been stealing his lunch money?

Or, heaven forbid, is it yet another request to proofread a manuscript?

Curse my curiosity.

Turning back towards our client, I decide to speed things along.

"Don't worry. We'll listen, no matter how concerning this matter of yours is."

Zaimokuza answers me with a tone that walks the line between sheer nervousness and wanton excitement.

"Honestly, I'm really scared to be sharing this, especially with… _others_ around." His bespectacled eyes reveal themselves for a moment and dart towards Yuigahama and Yukinoshita.

"But if it's you, Hachiman, my bro, _my guy,_ I feel alright. Only a true pal like you would be able to understand this strange turmoil that now stirs - no, _boils_ \- within my innermost psyche."

Ignoring his dramatic embellishments, I can see where he is coming from, with us being gym partners and all. It takes an outcast to know an outcast.

"Let's hear it then." He nods weakly in response.

The three of us lean in towards Zaimokuza's direction, straining our ears to catch the mumbling that proceeds out of his mouth. We instinctively brace ourselves for the worst.

.

.

.

 _"Uh, so there's this girl…"_

Were I not mired so deeply inside this mess, I'd gladly throw myself out the open window.


	4. The Modern La Mancha

**Chapter 4 / The Modern La Mancha**

People love to philosophize about how art imitates life, but as of two minutes ago I share Oscar Wilde's position that the opposite is true: Life imitates art far more than art imitates life. Case in point?

The fictional Spanish nobleman, Don Quixote, read too many chivalric romances and thus failed to see reality, instead imagining that he was a legendary knight. Art.

The hapless Japanese teenager, Zaimokuza, reads too many light novels and thus fails to see reality, instead imagining that he is an overpowered shounen protagonist. Life.

Tell me you aren't convinced.

"So let me get this straight, Zaimokuza."

"Mhm."

"You met this girl online…"

"On a Chiba Prefecture cosplay forum, yeah."

"…and proceeded to approach her out of the blue…"

At this, Zaimokuza crosses his arms in protest. "Actually, _she_ was the one who DM'd me first."

"Pardon?"

"DM? Direct messaging. You should really try it sometime, man, it's pretty sweet. I mean, you should have seen it for yourself, I slid _riiiiight inside_ -"

"Alright, so she was the one who approached you out of the blue through a direct message," I quickly concede, eager to be spared the mental image of Zaimokuza sliding inside anything.

"Yup."

"…you two, uh, proceeded to 'hit it off'…"

"I know right? I'm having a hard time believing it myself, but we really clicked! She likes all the manga that I'm into, every pop idol, been to every convention– everything! Heck, she even uses the same limited edition Macross Delta mousepad-"

"…and consequently, due to the discovery of these _unique shared interests,_ you believe that the two of you should become romantically involved with each other, effective immediately."

Although I am more than satisfied by this summary of events, Mr. Quixote apparently is not.

"You forgot to mention the part where I propose to her with an original composition: _'My heart was set on you / The minute I first gazed into those cerulean orbs / And felt their sweet waters erode these iron shackles of solitude.'_ "

Yukinoshita, however impenetrable her composure, noticeably grimaces. Even Yuigahama shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Terrible poetry is apparently a universal weakness.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, shut my eyes, and begin to massage. Hard.

"Okay, so you also aim to get married and have children. Yes?" The very word – married – coming from my own lips is enough to churn my stomach in new and uncomfortable ways. "Happily married" has become practically synonymous with "happily ever after" - three words that forever sum up the fates of one-dimensional fairy tale protagonists. No wonder children's fiction often ends in marriage, with a pair of newlyweds gazing at each other with excessive wanderlust on the balcony of some ivory castle: _"And then they married each other and lived happily ever after. The End."_

Where I come from, _"And then they eloped after two dates and proceeded to face the crushing shitstorm of marital problems that ensued"_ is a more probable ending for the blindly idealistic.

Speaking of blindly idealistic…

" _Six_ children." Zaimokuza states this number with a certain solemnity that reveals just how hard he has thought about his hypothetical offspring. "All girls, and all stunningly kawaii, just like their mother. But what you said sounds about right. Good plan, eh, Hachiman? Sometimes I manage to surprise even myself with the ingenuity of my battle tactics-"

"I have arrived at a conclusion."

"Really?" His face brightens with what can only be hope. "You've figured out how to bring my wildest dreams to fruition?"

"You're stupid."

"Wh-what?!"

"Yuigahama, tell him that he's stupid." I turn back to my novel and begin to read. From the corner of my eye, I can tell that Yukinoshita is lowkey approving of my word choice despite her best efforts to hide it.

 _"Hikki!"_

"Fine. Tell him that regardless of how his intelligence is perceived, we won't be taking this case."

Yukinoshita gives a huff of indignance at the definitive nature of my statement. "Since when did you get the final say in whether or not the Service Club accepts a case?"

"That's right, Yukinon! You tell him! I-I don't really understand what Zaimokuza has been saying that well, but he seems to be really passionate and honest about this whole thing…"

She stops for a moment to muster determination in her voice, balling her fists slightly before continuing.

"So… we should definitely help him out!"

I raise an eyebrow.

"Uh-huh. Zaimokuza. What's her name?"

"Ah, you mock me! What an easy thing to procure, kind sir." The bespectacled boy puffs out his chest proudly and reaches into the folds of his trench coat. His hand emerges with a haphazardly-bound leather notebook, on which he scribbles something with a pen before tearing out the page and handing it to me with a triumphant gesture.

"Her real name," I say flatly.

"B-But you didn't even _look!_ "

"The fact that you had to write it down is enough to tell me that this is her online username."

From the expression of pure shock on his face, I can tell that I've got Zaimokuza cornered. He laughs boomingly with a fit of nervous energy, pushing up his glasses and throwing his mop of white hair back to add more theatrical flair. "Hachiman, I have clearly underestimated you! Your deductive prowess has exceeded all expectations! I had pegged you for a mere Watson, but you are clearly more clever than your looks would suggest! You are a shrewd logician indeed, why, _a Holmes among Holmes-_ "

"Her real name, if you would," I deadpan while giving him my best faux-Yukinoshita death glare. It pales in comparison to the real deal sitting a few chair-widths across from me, but for the present purpose it will have to suffice. Zaimokuza's discomfort visibly grows until he reaches his breaking point.

"Fine! You got me! The truth is that I, uh, I mean - we - haven't exactly gotten that far yet," he bashfully admits.

Just as I am about to press my attack further and claim a flawless victory over this cross-examination, a certain coral-haired defense attorney swoops in to save her flustered client.

"Just because he doesn't know her real name yet doesn't mean that a real romance can't form between them," she argues. "Besides, the Service Club hasn't gotten many requests in a while. Shouldn't we be carrying out our club's mission to help out people as much as possible, instead of just sitting around all day sipping tea and making small talk?" Zaimokuza, spurred by the sudden arrival of his sugar-and-spice savior, begins nodding triumphantly after Yuigahama's every word.

Even the Judge herself seems ready to be convinced. "Yuigahama does make a fair point. We have indeed been lounging about with little to do lately, far removed from this club's original directive - indulging in petty verbal flings whereas individuals in need of assistance go largely ignored..."

Hey. I'll have you know that I put a lot of effort into our petty verbal flings.

"...Furthermore, despite this particular client's rather... distinct situation, we have helped him in the past without much in the way of interference - there is a successful precedent, at least, which is more than most new cases can claim to possess..." Yukinoshita continues to muse about the merits of agreeing to Zaimokuza's request, her high horse rearing its head once again.

I hold down the urge to point and shout "OBJECTION!" loud enough for the word to materialize above me in bombastic red font. Victory in the courtroom always comes at a price - in this case, the price being the need to invoke another one of my 108 skills: Deliberately Hijacking the Logical Train of Thought!

"Alright then, Your Honor. You decide. I'm sure facilitating a completely spontaneous online romance should be right up your alley."

I can almost see the words "spontaneous," "online," and "romance" churning single-file through the delicate clockwork of Yukinoshita's brain, setting off their respective red flags at each turn. Only a few moments have passed before we are graced with our fearless leader's wise and calculated response.

"We won't be taking the case."

Too easy.

Yuigahama is clearly shocked by the flagrant betrayal. "Hold on a minute, why?!"

"You heard the club president," I shrug, nodding towards her and making sure to place extra emphasis on both "club" and "president." "No can do. Sadly, it looks like the only option we have is to bail on this one."

"But Hachiman, please!" Zaimokuza blurts out before Yuigahama can even retort. "I don't know anyone else who can give me advice - you, you must know _something_ about how this works, right?"

It's no surprise to me by now, but this man's train of thought is almost impossible to comprehend, let alone hijack. My Hikigaya skill is useless here. Why is he so adamant that I can help him at all? In this situation, shouldn't you ask more popular people with some romantic clout for this kind of info? Or is he truly just that desperate?

"I don't quite follow."

"Well… isn't it kinda obvious?" He looks at me meekly, and I stare blankly at him in return.

"It's not."

Zaimokuza sighs. "You've been in this club for so long, and the _only other members are two girls..._ "

It suddenly dawns on me where he's going with this, and a numbing shiver arcs down my neck and across my arms. I barely even notice that the book has slipped from my hands, much less a pair of cold eyes tracing its path as it falls.

"...hasn't, something, y'know-"

He abruptly stops short. Under the table, my right foot has instinctively found its way onto his shoe, grinding into it with as much strength as it can summon. It's no use. I watch helplessly as the question takes root in my mind, cracking open the Pandora's Box that I've been avoiding until now.

 _"Hasn't something happened between you three already?"_

Part of me wants desperately to say that yes, something has happened between us - happened, in fact, right here in this very room. It wants to describe the way Yuigahama stumbled through her confession and how my words left her in tears, the veiled glances she now sends me that have become impossible to entirely ignore. It wants to confirm if those brief moments with Yukinoshita suggest something entirely beyond a mere friendship sustained by insults and banter. Above anything, it wants to cry earnestly, embarrassingly, even disgustingly - the way I did standing here that day, wanting something genuine, wanting just the truth.

But it can't. It sits sullenly within me now - deaf, mute. Rooted in place and unwilling to budge. My pulse quickens, my breath becomes short, my ears suddenly burn with heat. By the nature of human biology I'm either very in love or very afraid, and at this point I'm honestly not sure which is true or whether there's even a discernible difference between the two.

So I flip an invisible coin inside my gut, sending butterflies careening throughout my stomach. It spins for what seems like an eternity before finally landing face down on "afraid," and I do what most sane people do in response to fear.

I run.

"We'll help you." It comes out too fast, too hoarse - nothing at all like the authoritative statement I intended it to be. Across from me, Yuigahama wears her plastic smile, and Yukinoshita crosses her legs stiffly.

A furtive nod serves as his silent reply. Even sheer naivete cannot stop Zaimokuza from realizing that he has inadvertently sliced open an old wound. I try coughing into the folds of my sleeve, but nothing comes out.

Then Yuigahama claps her hands and springs out of her seat.

"O-kay, great! It's two against one then. We'll get to work right away! Let's see… we should divvy up some different tasks between us…" She spins towards Yukinoshita and, half-thinking to herself and half-suggesting, begins gushing out a warbled ensemble of ideas regarding Zaimokuza and the way towards his supposed romance. Yukinoshita, a little overwhelmed, simply nods. Her harsh stare flickers away from my direction as she slowly becomes lost in the bubbling exuberance before her.

Something - no, someone - taps my shoulder while the girls are occupied. Zaimokuza gives me a look that seems to ask, _"Hachiman bro, what was up with that?"_ Using an elaborate system of head shaking and scrunched up eyebrows, I trade him back with something that hopefully translates to, _"Now isn't a good time, I'll tell you about it later."_ Fortunately for me, Zaimokuza seems satisfied with my message.

Unfortunately for him, I already know that it's an empty promise.

"Earth to Hikigaya - no, more like Pluto to Hikigaya - did you get anything at all from what we just discussed?"

It takes a brief moment for me to register the fact that Yukinoshita has finished her conversation with Yuigahama and has returned to lob verbal grenades in my general direction.

"Hey, I'll have you know that Pluto is a very respectable planet of origin - uh, even if it technically isn't a planet anymore-"

"Enough of that." She dismisses my retort with a sullen indifference, as if all the wordplay and jabs we exchanged just minutes ago are suddenly beneath her.

"Here is what we have decided: Yuigahama will be in charge of improving Zaimokuza's physical appearance. This will include selecting a fashionable wardrobe on his behalf and providing him with extensive talks on proper self care and personal hygiene."

The former defense attorney-turned romantic consultant seems absolutely enthused by the first half of her responsibilities; apparently the alluring challenge of turning Mr. Trench Coat Shut-In into the next Eligible Bachelor is enough to drown out her unease regarding the entire latter portion of Yukinoshita's sentence. She spins around and gives Zaimokuza her trademark grin. "You'll be hearing from me soon!"

"As for me, I will be in charge of elevating Zaimokuza's public etiquette and speech mannerisms to a more _appropriate_ social standard-" Yukinoshita pauses for a moment to regard the hopeless romantic with a dry glare before continuing: "-so that he fully understands and appreciates how to behave around a lady."

My eyebrows furrow. "I'm sorry, this is great, but what exactly is it all for?" Across the table, Zaimokuza appears to be equally as dumbfounded.

Yuigahama beams. "For the _d-a-t-e,_ of course!"

"Which will be your responsibility to facilitate," Yukinoshita casually adds.

At this, our client almost falls off his chair. I blink a few times, hoping to snap out of whatever cruel hallucination this has become.

"A _date,_ of all things? How is that even supposed to work? It's an online relationship, if it's a relationship at all - hell, Zaimokuza doesn't even know her real name-"

" _You_ were the one who ultimately agreed that we would help him with his request, despite my objection. Is that correct?" Yukinoshita flicks her eyes towards me, then looks away. Her expression somewhat sags, making her seem tired, almost indifferent - as if all this is suddenly just another exam she is expected to ace, as if I have become no more than a stain on her handkerchief that will be scrubbed out in due time.

"...Yeah," I finally reply after a long pause.

"Then it is quite apparent that setting up a physical date is the only way for the Service Club to properly assist Zaimokuza. We are useless to him if his interactions with this love interest are confined online." She states this matter-of-factly, her face devoid of all emotion except something simmering beneath the distance she has woven between us. "Besides, if he is in fact serious about this whole affair - and I will interpret your willingness to help as a personal testament to Zaimokuza's sincerity - he will be forced to come face-to-face with her eventually."

I'm about to question how I could possibly help guarantee Zaimokuza a date with some Internet gal pal, but Yukinoshita waves me off and continues, leaving no survivors in the wake of her cold logic. "Your task is elementary in nature. Zaimokuza will supply you with his account credentials for the online service he is using to contact this girl. There is a strong chance that she is a Chiba resident given that Zaimokuza met her while frequenting a forum catering to individuals in our locale. You will pose as him for a few days, building a strong rapport with her until she agrees to a romantically intentioned date. Quite doeable, even for someone like you."

The tone of her voice seems to suggest that wooing a complete stranger is fundamentally no different than buying groceries, a task to be completed by scribbling down bullet points and checking items off a list.

"Why me?" I ask weakly.

"Because you are the only one among us whom Zaimokuza might allow to peer into his personal life. And frankly, I am inclined to believe that you are more familiar with Zaimokuza's particular... _flavor of lexicon_ than you care to admit."

Both of these things, unfortunately, are true.

"As for the date itself, I'm thinking the charming little café near the train station will do?" She throws a sidelong glance at her starry eyed partner in crime.

"H-huh? Oh yeah, that sounds great, Yukinon," Yuigahama hastily agrees, toying absentmindedly with her bangs.

"The café, then, if possible. You have some freedom over the particulars of the exact arrangement, obviously." A shrug. "Once the date is set, Yuigahama and I will take care of the rest. We will convene again when ready. Any objections? Particularly, any from you, Hikigaya Hachiman?"

And for the third time today, the room becomes palpably silent.

"Good," Yukinoshita mutters quietly. She stands, swinging her bag over her shoulder in one clean motion, before pausing to turn towards the window. Her knifelike eyes follow suit. They cut outside, shifting their focus from the sky to the ground, cleaving twin arcs through clouds and trees and whatever else is unlucky enough to be caught in their path. Then, after only an instant, they spin towards me. I flinch, half-waiting to be sliced into ribbons, but Yukinoshita's gaze has softened - no, dulled. The color from her irises wash over me, a mix of blues and greys rolling with their own ebb and flow, stripping my heart of everything except something reminiscent of melancholy.

Then the tide retreats, and she's gone before I can say a word.

"Ah - Yukinon! Wait up!" Yuigahama calls out as she scrambles to grab her belongings. She starts towards the door, halting after each step to fumble with the strap of her schoolbag.

Seeing this as his cue, Zaimokuza also rises and begins lumbering out. "Well, well, Hachiman. This has, uh, certaintly been quite a turn of events," he intones while looking at me over his shoulder, pushing up his glasses with a pudgy index finger. It's a little hard to see, but I'm almost certain that his teeth are chattering nervously. "We shall be in touch about this... this... d-d-d-d-a-t-e...!" The bumbling otaku audibly gulps before dashing out into the hallway after Yuigahama, leaving me sitting alone at an empty table in an even emptier classroom.

At once everything feels very cold and very blue, sapped entirely of warmth. My book is still crumpled on the floor where I dropped it, its pages folded and askew. I don't bother picking it up. Instead I drag my feet over to the window and slump my head just beyond the frame.

Outside, the track team runs. I watch them silently with a burgeoning lump in my throat, picturing myself among them. Panting. Gasping. Sprinting endlessly, wordlessly. Chasing my own shadow until I break, or until someone who knows my time tells me to stop. I imagine Yukinoshita here in my place, staring down at this everyday slice of infinity, until the tide surges back and my eyes sting from what might be seafoam.


End file.
